


A Place to Belong

by girahimu_sama



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Family Bonding, M/M, Post-Canon, V returns, and maybe even some smooching along the way?, exploration of Vergil and V's PTSD and other issues, rating is for eventual VerV smut, there's Nelo Angelo stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:42:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29530032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girahimu_sama/pseuds/girahimu_sama
Summary: V doesn't perceive, doesn't die, and isn't reborn.Until he is.(Several months after the incident in Red Grave, V shows up at the Devil May Cry. Figuring out where this second chance at life puts him - between Dante, Nero and, most of all, Vergil - isn't a simple matter at all.)
Relationships: V/Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 31





	1. Return

**Author's Note:**

> First proper VergilV fic :D I wanted to do this ship some justice, but I also didn't want to end up writing DMC6 (maybe some other time, when I feel like taking on a more ambitious project) so this was supposed to be a character focused oneshot. However, it's getting kind of long so I'm just breaking into chapters.
> 
> The first of which sees a very... cold reception, but don't worry. That's just Vergil's usual emotionally constipated self.

He is everything one moment, and nothing the next, the fleeting point of his existence condensing down to the spot where his cane meets the demon king's chest. Completion erases him, erases Urizen, as the sum of their parts reawakens. What threads had torn loose from their separation stitch back together, and he is lost in the pattern. V doesn't perceive, doesn't die, and isn't reborn.

Until he is.

If there is one thing he can be grateful for, it isn't as jarring as the first time, nor does it rend terror through his bones. The terror of being spat out into the world with his demonic half looming over him. The utter helplessness of realizing how weak and small the pitiful form he'd been spat out into was.

By comparison, this is quite peaceful, though he doesn't remember how he ended up on this dingy, unfamiliar street. It was as if he had been sleepwalking, and had awoken mid step.

V gasps, the past and present fusing together for a moment. He still grips the cane like he'd plunged it into the chest of his other half, and it clatters to the ground as he loses his footing. He stumbles, falling to the pavement, his arms pale in the moonlight that washes over them. This is all wrong. Where is he? Why is he here? Why is he… himself?

Indeed, the scrawny arms that stretch out before him, painted with that familiar demonic ink, cannot belong to Vergil. V's breath stutters, disorientation threatening to send him back into the darkness. It's as if he's been cut out of the world, suspended in some kind of stasis and then dropped into a completely different time. He doesn't belong here, and yet…

He shivers, the cold bringing him back to the present. It had been a warm spring in Red Grave but, wherever this was, it had to have been well into the winter months here. There's a thin dusting of snow and frost covering everything in this derelict part of town. Perhaps the _why_ and the _how_ can wait, because his clothing does absolutely nothing to offset the deep, biting chill that is fast creeping into his bones. Perhaps he should be grateful he had been thrust back into the world with clothing _at all_ this time.

There's a sound like shifting sands, and then V feels feathers embrace either side of him, a weight perching at his back. Demonic energy pulses hot around him - another phenomena he can't make sense of. He had been so weak, his flesh crumbling under his incomplete existence, yet now his skin doesn't appear to have a crack on it. He is shivering against the cold, but he doesn't feel _frail_. 

"We should get moving, shouldn't we, Shakespeare?" Griffon leans over his shoulder to speak in his ear, familiar and comforting. V veil solace in his voice, even if it is as jarring and obnoxious in the quiet as ever. "I like not bein' dead. Not sure why I'm _not_ dead anymore though. What happened to Vergil?"

"I haven't the faintest," V utters, voice a thin rasp like he hasn't used it in centuries. For all he knows, that may very well be the case.

"So, what do we do now?"

"What we have always done," V pushes himself back to his feet, feeling a presence rise up beneath him. He leans on Shadow for support for a moment before he rights himself. "We keep moving."

Because there is nothing else to do. He isn't one to wait around and let the chill of the night claim him. If there is a purpose to be found here, then he will find it. His familiars keep close to him, offsetting the cold with the energy that pours off of their forms. It helps keep the worst of it away, though his teeth still chatter. He focuses on the rhythmic _thunk_ of his cane against the concrete, one foot in front of the other. He doesn't question why his companions have returned even though logic should dictate they should be dead right now, slain by Dante's hand. It's irrelevant as long as he is here again, breathing with his own lungs and trembling with his own limbs.

It is strange that no one is out to see the unusual sight of an underdressed man cradled by two nightmare creatures as they make their way down the street. This must be an abandoned part of town. When V glances up, he finds his answer in the tower that cuts against the dark sky. Suddenly V knows exactly where he is.

_"Little wanderer,"_ a dry smile finds its way across his face, _"hie thee home."_

As V makes his way through the streets, memories stir back to the surface of his consciousness, like fitful dreams piecing themselves together after waking. V can recall what happened after his remerging, the top of the Qliphoth. He recalls the battle against Dante, and then Nero driving himself between them both. He recalls the fall into hell alongside his brother, and then their return into the human world. Seemingly, there is nothing amiss about Vergil's life - nothing that would lead him to separate himself once more - so why is he here…?

But V's brow furrows as he tries to examine the memories in closer detail. Again, like a dream the details are vague and muddy, an invisible barrier separating himself from his own thoughts - or what used to be his own thoughts. He grasps for what has happened since their return from hell, anything that might offer him a clue, but there's nothing there. It's merely a void in his memory. Similar gaps litter the space between him plunging the cane into Urizen's chest, and now. 

It leaves V perturbed because it hadn't been like this the first time he had been cut out of his complete self. Vergil's thoughts had remained clear to him, almost painfully vivid in his mind, but now it was as if he was sifting through the visions of a complete stranger. Of a life that hadn't truly belonged to him.

V doesn't know what to make of it all.

"Well well, here we are again, V." 

Griffon's voice brings his attention back up. Already they are here, the neon _Devil May Cry_ sign buzzing down at them. Perhaps fate had brought him back here so easily this time, and he supposed he should be thankful he hadn't had to travel so far. Perhaps it is merely some cruel joke, as he comes here without purpose this time. It can't be called home, not by a long shot, but it is the only lead he has, the only place he can make sense of.

And where the only person who may be able to help him resides. There's no way he'd be able to find his way to Fortuna in this state, and Nero has done more than enough for him regardless.

"If you got any more of those jokes, maybe leave em at the door this time," Griffon snickers. When V takes a step up onto the first stair and then pauses for a long time, Griffon tilts his head. "You waiting for your Prince Charming, Cinderella?"

Shadow circles around his legs, rubbing up against them just as inquisitively, trying to urge him towards the warmth of the building. V still doesn't move, even as the cold sinks deeper into his thin frame. 

Pale yellow light seeps from the building and spills onto the street, so V knows Dante is here, but that does not bring comfort. The first time he had sought Dante's help, he'd had the luxury of a hidden identity. Dante knows exactly who and _what_ he is now, and the question posed by his very existence would probably not be an easy one, and his existence itself would not be very welcomed.

_"Dear Mother, dear Mother, the Church is cold, But the Ale-house is healthy and pleasant and warm,"_ V hears himself say, staring down at his hand, the passage coming easy though he didn't find the familiar weight of the book sitting in his palm. _"Besides I can tell where I am use'd well, Such usage in heaven will never do well."_

"Well you're gonna catch a cold out here and it's gonna be _really_ annoying lugging your snot-mug around."

V snorts, knowing he has a point. There isn't anything to be gained by staying out here, so he merely takes a deep breath and turns to press the door open.

…

Dante is sitting at the desk with his feet propped up, chair tipped dangerously far back. A magazine rests over his face and, if not for the way he shifts as the doors open, V would have thought he was dozing.

Perhaps he shouldn't be simply barging in like this, but V doesn't exactly have the luxury of calling in advance for an appointment, and his limbs are numb enough as it is.

"Sorry, we're just about to clo-" Dante sits up straighter, the magazine sliding off his face, and V watches his casual demeanor crack. For a moment, Dante's brows shoot up as he regards V, the shock plainly written across his face, and then it settles back under an easy grin that's a little too sharp to be genuine. He lets his feet drop to the floor and leans forward onto the desk, and V feels the full weight of his undivided attention.

"Well, well, look what the cat… and the pigeon dragged in." Dante glances at Shadow and Griffon as they flank V, tilting his head and considering them for a moment. Then he sighs, shrugs and continues. "Got the whole band back together too, eh? Alright, what's the damage this time?"

"I apologize for the… sudden intrusion," V says slowly, not paying any heed to the way Shadow bares her teeth at the devil hunter before them and Griffon bunches his feathers up. Dante's presence had always set them on edge, be it by old wounds or Vergil's latent emotions, but a fight would do them no good right now. V sends them a mental command to stand down, and they reluctantly settle.

His own feelings towards Dante are… complicated, a tangle of resentment and grief, all of which belong to Vergil. It doesn't seem all that useful right now, however, to let such a grudge dictate what he should do - especially one he feels increasingly detached from.

He regards Dante carefully, looking at the matter in a _practical_ sense. He doesn't appear all that different from the last time he'd seen him. Same clothes - did he _own_ anything else? - same expression, no noticeable aging has taken place. His hair has been cropped shorter again, like the first time V had arrived at his office, but that is the only real difference. All things considered, he looks good, and it can't have been _that_ long since the Qliphoth incident.

"There is no cause for alarm. At least, not that I'm aware of." V frowns. It is indeed the truth, as plainly as he can state it, but that doesn't erase his own concerns over the whole situation. There is something distinctly _off_ here, but he can't place what it is.

"Yeah? Well I'm really aware of the fact you're supposed to be back inside of Vergil. And _you-"_ Dante jabs a finger at Griffon, then Shadow, "-are supposed to be piles of dust. So I think we can skip right past the cryptic bullshit and I can get to cleaning whatever he screwed up this time."

He says it so casually, no real change in his tone as he grins and leans back in his chair again, but V has to consciously stop himself from flinching away. It is like the last time he was here, the drop in pressure as the air shifts and the prickle of heat across his skin. V had come, seeking help from the only individual he knew could stand against his other half, invoking a name only Dante could have responded to so strongly, and Dante had let him have a glimpse of the devil hiding beneath his skin.

Dante wasn't happy then and he certainly isn't pleased now. V expects to see the eyes of a demon as he stares into them, but they remain blue. V shudders all the same - either from the fear at being a feeble and helpless human before such a beast, or excitement from a challenge he could never hope to rise to. Some misplaced part of Vergil's blood stirs up, wanting to answer.

"That won't be necessary."

Both Dante and V's attention is drawn upwards. The unspoken subject of both their concerns, the _he_ Dante was referring to, stands at the top of the stairs, regarding both of them with his usual mask of indifference. V can't decide what is more surprising: the fact he is here at all in one piece, or that he chose to remain here even after returning from Hell. Then again, Vergil must have been just as without direction as V.

The tension breaks as Dante spreads his arms wide, probably just as surprised to see him there. "Hey, Vergil! I'm seeing double!"

"Then I suggest you get your head examined." Vergil doesn't spare his brother a glance as he makes his way down the steps. His sights never leave V.

"Funny thing, I remember last time this guy-" Dante jerks his thumb in V's direction, "-showed up, some asshole dropped a big stinkin' weed in the middle of Red Grave. Said asshole turned out to be the more asshole-y part of _you,_ so what does that make _this?"_

"Given ample time and research, I could provide an adequate hypothesis for you."

They continue to converse, a different sort of tension filling the air like thick smog. Unlike V, Vergil _can_ match Dante's power, and V may find himself caught between their scorching fire and immovable ice if he isn't careful. It's a wonder the shop is still intact, if they both truly have been living here this whole time (in fact, it even appears that it's been cleaned up a bit.) Suspicion drips off Dante's tone, and Vergil must hear it - though he either doesn't or _can't_ acknowledge it. He must know something, shouldn't he?

V isn't sure as he meets that cold stare with one of his own. How surreal it is, for them both to be here in the same space. It should have been impossible, and yet here he is gazing at his mirror image - or what used to be his mirror image. He doesn't know what he sees in those eyes now, doesn't know what is going on behind them. There is no answer to be found there.

Dante pulls a face as he watches the two of them stare each other down, scratching his head. Just as at a loss, it seems. "You didn't get stabby with the Yamato in your sleep, did you?"

"As you can plainly see, I'm quite intact." Vergil reaches down, briefly grasping the Yamato's scabbard where it is tied at his hip. He releases it the next moment, stopping a pace away from V with his eyes narrowed. The pressure in the room seems to intensify with his scrutiny, and V grinds his teeth behind his lips.

He's in a room with two demonic super predators, one of which is assessing him, measuring his ability, judging if he is _worth_ the effort of dealing with or not. V knows that contempt Vergil regards him with, that subtle curl of his lip, because it had once been _his_ face, _his_ judgement. He grips the handle of his cane tighter, but doesn't lean on it. It would do him no good to show any sort of weakness before either of them after all - even if he can't help but shiver from the lingering cold in his bones.

Vergil's fingers flex, as if considering going for the Yamato again, and V knew he wouldn't stand a chance if he did. Would Vergil simply strike him down here on the floor of the Devil May Cry? Think nothing of this bizarre happenstance and move on? Would Dante let him? V couldn't blame him for harbouring any resentment after he'd manipulated him. Additionally, his existence is redundant - to both of them. Dante has his brother back, and Vergil has his complete existence. Where could V fit between that?

But, the next moment, Vergil tilts his chin up with a quiet scoff, his gaze sliding away from V, as if he can't be bothered.

"I don't know what brought this anomaly here, but it isn't of any sort of threat."

He strides past V, making his way towards the front doors. V turns his head to watch him go, but he says nothing. Griffon, on the other hand, can't contain his own comments.

"Sheesh! We're standin' right here!"

Indeed, something within V burns to turn and let control of his familiars go, prove he will not be _disregarded_ so easily. Is it anger he feels? Vergil would not even be here if not for his gambit against Urizen. But still, he remains silent.

Dante gives an incredulous snort after his brother.

"Really? Not much else to say about your disembodied human side just strolling in here, huh?" He turns his attention to V again. "You didn't see ol' bastard on your way over here, did you?"

"No. I believe I would have sensed it if he were close by." V says, though he isn't quite sure. He had been able to sense Urizen through their connection in the past, but did that even remain true at this point? So many if his preconceived notions had been turned on their heads. He was here, but so was Vergil. Could a resurrected Urizen be running around somewhere without his knowing? Now that was a disturbing thought.

Vergil pauses at the door, inclining his head back towards them slightly, a silent acknowledgement they were all on the same wavelength regarding _that_ matter.

"Should it prove to be a problem, I will take care of it."

He leaves without another word, off to deal with whatever business he has at this hour. V stares at the closed doors for a long time, wondering what to make of it all. His memories tell him Vergil would honour his claims but, evidently, he isn't a part of Vergil any longer.

"Right so, V is back, bro is in one piece, and Urizen is MIA," Dante speaks up again, drawing V's attention back over to him. He looks concerned for all of five seconds as he lists the various facts they have managed to parse out thus far, and then that grin of his is back. Just another bizarre cog in the strange machine that was their lives, V supposed. "Ya want something to eat? You look like a light breeze could blow you over - no offense, kid."

His traitorous body answers for him, a painfully audible rumble rising in his stomach. Griffon bursts into laughter and V swats him away with irritation. He can't even give pause to Dante's questionable use of _kid_ (as if he and Vergil don't share the same life experience) because apparently his body thinks it hasn't received food in ages. Resurrection was proving to be such a troublesome matter.

"I would be very grateful." 

Dante smiles, a little softer this time as he reaches for the phone. V can't complain; pizza beats demon meat any day.

Perhaps it isn't so surprising Dante would offer him a meal after everything. He's accepted Vergil back into his life after all. 

"Actually I… came here for a purpose, though I suppose it's more of a request." V continues, stopping Dante mid dial.

"Oh yeah? Let's hear it." Dante sets the phone back down for the time being, tucking his hands behind his head. "If you start it with 'a powerful demon is about to resurrect' I might just have to turn chicken here into a nice fluffy hat."

"Why me?!" Griffon squawks.

"It is nothing like that, I assure you." V chuckles, waving away his two familiars. Now that any possible immediate danger isn't a factor for the time being, they are content to disappear back into his skin.

Dante doesn't look convinced, and V supposes he can't blame him, given the nature of their past interactions. He regards Dante for a moment, before venturing closer to the desk. 

So many questions of what to do now, of what his existence means and what it can become, none of which he has answers for. They had been pressing at the back of his mind since his return. For now, he has a meal and a warm respite, but what comes after that?

V thinks he has an idea, if Dante will humour him. Perhaps his position in this family is unclear, unsteady, but he has nothing else to turn to, no where else to start. So that is why V steps right up to the desk and lays his palm down on the wood, a daring smirk on his face as he leans his weight onto it.

  
 _"Devil May Cry_ wouldn't happen to be taking applications, would it?"


	2. Bonds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This time on Meet the Spardas, V fumbles through some awkward conversations and comes face to face with his trauma. :) Also, Vergil is there. I wonder what he's up to.

"V really is back?!"

The doors to the office are thrown open as a familiar southern twang permeates the foyer. V jumps to his feet, the cheap reprint of Shakespeare's sonnets falling forgotten to the couch.

It should be expected that news of his return would spread - Dante's doing no doubt - but it still sets him a little off kilter seeing Nicoletta's grinning face peering at him from the entryway. That anyone should remember him (as  _ himself _ ) at all is disorienting, feeling like a dream from a lifetime ago. If she is here, then so must be...

"Oh shit, he wasn't kidding."

Nero steps into view and freezes, the shock so plainly written across his face. V's stomach plummets, every interaction with this child smashing into each other in horrible dissonance - his own memories, and those of Vergil's. He doesn't know where he stands, what Nero will do now that he is here again, after all the deception. Dante had taken it well enough, but Dante is a very different beast than the fiery boy that stands before him. V wasn't supposed to live this long - long enough to see the potential consequences.

Nicoletta either isn't aware of the tension or chooses to ignore it completely.

"My man V!" She yells and all but sprints at him, throwing her arms around his neck. He grunts, nearly thrown over by her weight, but smiles despite himself at the warmth of the gesture. Clearly still unwilling to tone her mannerisms down for anyone else's sake. It's comforting to see nothing has changed. V hadn't even known he would miss such things until they were back before his eyes.

"Nicoletta, always a pleasure."

She gives his shoulder an apologetic pat as she backs off. "It's so good to see ya! How ya been? Aside from bein' like- well y'know, in Vergil 'n all."

"Nico-" Nero joins them, scowling at her, but she raises a finger.

"Look, I know, I know! You have a lotta business to work through, might even have a little cry on his shoulder- don't give me that look! I kinda wanna cry too. But for now I think we can just be happy our friend V is back and we can deal with the you-know-what later!"

Nero looks like he wants to say something else, and V inwardly braces for it - because Nico is treading over  _ very _ sensitive territory - but there's a puff of black smoke above them.

"Aww we missed ya too, toots!" Griffon inserts himself into the conversation and V is somewhat grateful for it.

Nico puts her hands on her hips and cocks her head up at him. "Thought I'd never hear your voice again, little chickee!"

Nero isn't as enthused, squinting up at Griffon with the obvious question. "How is this possible? Didn't Dante-"

"Don't know, don't care. You got a problem you can take it up with the boss." Griffon lands on V's shoulder, throwing Nero a smug look, which he returns with an even deeper scowl.

"I don't have a  _ problem- _ "

Nico elbows him. "You look like you do but that's why we're going for lunch, huh?"

"Lunch?" V's voice finds him again, nearly getting lost against the chaotic torrent of conversation as he is still processing the fact that they are here for  _ him _ . 

"Yeah, since we're in town and we don't have any demon things to take care of," she chirps like it's the most casual thing ever, already marching back out the door. "C'mon we can even get the brunch special if we make it there before noon!"

…

Nicoletta talks and talks and talks all the way to and through brunch, going on about how business has been since Red Grave, what's happened between now and then, new projects she's picked up. She even dips into the  _ "family hornet's nest" _ until Nero shoots her a warning look, but she's as adept at changing the flow of conversation as she is with her machinery. Or she simply doesn't pay it any mind. Her nonchalance is a comforting buffer, especially in the face of Nero's obviously turbulent emotions.

The boy hides nothing, as V knows he usually doesn't, and he definitely can't be blamed here. While V can be thankful it isn't anything near the thinly veiled disgust he faces from Vergil, V can see Nero is struggling to process this new development so much more. He keeps frowning at his mostly untouched plate, mouth twisting and untwisting, brow furrowing as if edging into angry territory but not quite able to make it there. Mostly he just appears confused, avoiding looking at V too much. 

Nicoletta's incessant chatter takes the edge off of the awkwardness, and it's almost uncanny how natural it all feels, even in spite of Nero and the strange web of emotions he represents. Nico squawks as Griffon's head appears in a puff of dark smoke, snatching a piece of her toast right off her plate. He cackles and disappears before his presence can draw any attention in the quaint little  _ "hipster joint" _ Nico had selected, leaving her huffing. Nero rolls his eyes, but cracks a smile and V can't help but join him, so perhaps all is not lost after all.

But, the inevitable comes after they're done eating. Nico drives them to the park, practically boots them out of the van as she says she has to go take care of a few things, winks at Nero and then speeds off.

Now they are alone and that buffer is gone. V points his cane in a random direction and Nero starts walking in silent agreement. For all that he seems to want to say, there don't seem to be many words left.

"She's annoying as hell…" Nero runs his hand through his hair, muttering to himself more than anything.

"Overbearing at worst, but hardly a bother. I did... miss this," V finds himself admitting, frowning as he says it. Such a fleeting experience in a fleeting life… Perhaps it's irrational, thinking of those nights in the van, sitting with Shadow at his feet while Nico and Nero argue back and forth to the point of exhaustion, as  _ home _ . But they're some of the only memories that truly belong to  _ him. _

"Missing Nico's jabbering, huh?" Nero snorts, shaking his head. "So Dante got you the hookup with the new gig, right?"

"Yes, and I'm grateful for it because I can't say I have much else on my resume." V didn't live for long, but at least he could say in the time he did live he was  _ very _ good at killing demons. What was Dante going to do? Say no to another competent devil hunter?

Nero grunts, eyes shifting towards him. He is still so poor at disguising what thoughts he really wants to speak aloud - and indeed he does a moment later.

"I'm still just trying to figure out what you are, V."

V smiles ruefully, recalling Nero voicing similar sentiments in the past. Back then, he'd had every reason to disguise his true identity. Perhaps he'd even taken a certain pleasure in knowing just how much his cryptic words could leave others reeling. This time, however, he isn't being mysterious for the sake of some wider end goal; V truly doesn't know why he exists or what role he's supposed to fulfill this time.

"You're not the only one."

Nero pulls a face, scuffing the pavement with the toe of his boot as they keep walking. Awkwardness bleeds between them, like a wound cut open, and V watches him carefully.

"I don't mean like… what brought you back. I don't think that matters now." He scratches the back of his head. "I just… agh."

V understands. He sees it struggling on Nero's face, the resentment that wants to form and the grief that keeps repressing it. It tugs sharp at V's heart and it surprises him how much he wants to reach out and offer… something, some form of comfort, but he doesn't dare. The situation is fraught enough as it is.

He's come to care about the boy, that much cannot be denied. Even before the knowledge of their connection (which V had foolishly chosen not to acknowledge the possibility of, because there had been  _ no time _ ), Nero's warmth and compassion had burned bright against his crumbling body. He was no longer just a tool to be used, a piece in the game.

Even if V had indeed used him in the end.

"Yes, the situation with Vergil is rather… unorthodox."

V deserves every ounce of his fury, just as much as Vergil does, but regardless of what V thinks, Nero doesn't turn his anger on him.

"It's not like he  _ acts _ like a father." Nero probably meant to say it casually, but his words clip with pain (even a hint of childish petulance) at the end. 

It twists V's insides even further. It's so bizarre how he feels like an outsider to the situation, even though he's been Vergil the whole time, but Vergil exists in his entirety separate from him now. Perhaps Nero has simply chosen the easier target to aim his grievances at.

Nero looks at him, a little sheepishly this time. "But uh, you look old enough to be my brother so I'm not about to start calling you  _ dad _ either."

It isn't like V doesn't have his own reservations about the matter - Nero, his  _ son,  _ is still so unbelievable - but it stings nonetheless, a pointed reminder that his existence is redundant. He's been separated from his heritage, legacy, and name, no real place to call his own. Just Vergil's disembodied humanity, twice discarded now.

V's chuckle is a little brittle, fingers tightening around his cane.

"Perhaps brother is a better starting point? For the sake of simplicity?"

He's only half joking, but he regrets asking as soon as the words leave his mouth. Nero abruptly stops walking and blinks like somebody slapped him. He squints at V, like he'd grown another head - which would probably be less strange than the rest of this situation at this point.

Whatever has rendered Nero speechless, it passes the next moment. The whiplash between his emotions is almost staggering, and V releases a relieved breath he doesn't even realize he's holding.

"Yeah. Okay, that's doable for me. Probably." Nero scratches his neck, picking up the pace again, still sounding a little stunned. "So, what are you gonna do now?"

Ah, the eternal question. V is afraid he doesn't have an answer for that one either.

_ "One thought fills immensity." _

"Here we go again…" Nero rolls his eyes, but then pauses. "Oh, that reminds me actually-" 

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out something so familiar it snaps the breath from V's body. Nero holds out the book expectantly, the gold lining on the cover catching the light, but V can only stare at it.

"Vergil gave this to you to hold onto."

V remembers that clearly. Vergil had given it to him as a keepsake, a promise he'd return - perhaps not even one he'd wanted to fulfill in the moment, but regardless, he  _ wanted _ Nero to have it.

"Yeah well now I'm giving it to you." Nero huffs and shoves it into V's hands. "He doesn't seem to want it back anyway." 

Its weight fits into his hands so perfectly and it's hard not to let his fingers clamp onto it like they don't want to let it go. It makes him feel more like… himself just holding it. V regards the boy before him, but not through the lens of Vergil this time.

"Thank you," he says - because Nero deserves it, because V owes him everything and so much more, because all he can remember is the weight of him supporting his crumbling body. Because V  _ wants _ to, above all else. "I… apologize for deceiving you."

There's a lot more than that to apologize for, but Nero looks flustered enough as it is, and is already starting off again, wiping at his nose in a way that's probably meant to hide the colour tinting his face.

"I appreciate that you can actually say it."

…

Dante huffs and drops on his ass, planting the Devil Sword in the skull of an Empusa's corpse and leaning on it.

"What was that anyway? Round 500? 600?"

Vergil flicks the blood off of Yamato and sheaths it, lip curling as he kicks away the last of the swarm that had prevented them from a clean fight. He drops down behind Dante afterwards, back pressed to his brother's.

"642 actually. Not accounting for-" he watches the demon's body roll down the steep slope and land at the bottom with a dull thud, "-interruptions."

"Nerd."

"Fool."

He can hear the smirk in Dante's voice, and his lips can't help but twitch upwards as well.

They sit at the top of a mountain of the demons that had attempted to get in the way of their competition. After a while, the bodies had began to pile up, so they had turned that into a sport too. Several smaller hills of corpses had formed, but they made their perch on the highest one. The strange, otherworldly light washes over them from the sunless sky, the twisted greys and reds of Hell's landscape stretching far around them. In the distance, the trunk of the severed Qliphoth and its roots lay like a skeleton, bone white against the murky horizon.

Vergil closes his eyes and breathes it all in.

Waves of demons challenging him, felled by his and Dante's blades. The satisfying ache of prolonged exertion in his muscles. His brother's steadying presence at his back, as they slayed any and all who thought themselves fit to pry the crown away from the  _ King of Hell.  _ The interruptions to their duels could be irksome, and the title he holds is ridiculous and arbitrary, but Vergil could lose himself in this forever. There is a rhythm to be found here, between the sensation of his blade gliding through demonic scum and clashing against Dante's, a harmony of fire and ice that soothes his soul.

Everything else seems to fall away. There are no memories to render him helpless against the ever seizing grip of the past. No complications like Nero and the fact he had a  _ son _ at all to disorient him. No concerns about the human world and all the trivial matters it entailed. There is only him, Dante, and the time that stretches between them - lost time, precious regained time, an eternity they spend in their new bloody reign.

Or, it was supposed to be an eternity anyway.

"You know what I'm craving?" Dante speaks up suddenly, and Vergil only slightly inclines his head towards him. That tone of his could only mean foolishness was inbound. "A big ol' strawberry sundae."

He dispels the Devil Sword and hops off their throne. Vergil nearly falls off himself from the shock of it, unsure if he heard that correctly.

_ "What?" _

Dante lands on a small outcropping made of a few disemboweled Riots. He calls back up, "with a cherry on top! I know a place."

He continues down to the bottom, and Vergil leaps down after him - and it's  _ not _ because he wants to follow whatever idiotic whim has taken hold of Dante.

"You're just...  _ leaving?" _

Dante uses a discarded plate of armor as a sled, crunching bones and limbs under him as he rides it down. When his feet hit the strange spongy gravel that makes up the earth, he turns to peer back up at Vergil and plants his hands on his hips. "I'm tired. Nothin' to eat in Hell. Can't expect me to stay on an empty stomach, do you?"

"We're  _ even _ . You can't quit now," Vergil huffs. This is preposterous, utterly absurd, and if pointing that out doesn't bring his brother to his senses, perhaps a bit of goading would. He tilts his head, a haughty sneer curling his lips. "Unless you concede your loss?"

"Hmmm," Dante considers for an infuriatingly long amount of time, scratching his chin. "Ask me that after I've had dinner."

Then he turns and begins walking off, and Vergil is ashamed of the panic that swells up so sharp and abrupt, shooting through him like a bolt of lightning.

"Coward."

Vergil remains where he is, the word snapping out harshly and lingering in the stagnant air. It fills the space, crushing around his limbs, making him grit his teeth and clench his fists. The sudden fear that roots him to the spot is so hideously ironic that Vergil almost wants to laugh. 

What is he afraid of? He's survived here, by himself, for years and he could continue to do so without an issue. He didn't  _ need _ Dante here to help him defend his title.

_ Coward. _

Dante does stop, but he doesn't turn around just yet, merely cocking his head in Vergil's direction.

"You know, you don't have to exile yourself to Hell every time something doesn't go your way." 

Vergil narrows his eyes down at him, pursing his lips. As if feeling the glare burning a hole in the back of his head and demanding his attention, Dante turns back around with an easy shrug.

"C'mon, you still like chocolate the best, right? Hey- same as your kid." 

When they were younger, Vergil would play a game of  _ stay quiet and ignore his brother _ , completely sealing his lips in the face of Dante's incessant questions and requests to come outside and play. The more Dante wailed, the longer Vergil would remain silent and pretend he wasn't even there. Sometimes mother was called and he'd be scolded for it and  _ you two need to use your words to resolve your issues _ , but the smug satisfaction of seeing Dante break first was worth it.

It feels a lot like that now, staring down at Dante, lips pressed tightly together, only there is no mother to scold them now, and the vague glimmer of hope in Dante's eye lingers only for a moment. His brother's shoulders slump and doesn't press further than that.

Sighing and starting off again, Dante merely leaves him with a salute.

"Or stay up there and keep your throne. Take it easy, brother."

The sound of his footsteps steadily fades, growing distant. Dante doesn't look back, not once, as he reaches the line of tall white grass, half of him disappearing behind it. Vergil watches him fade behind the strange reddish haze that permeates the air, the pressure surrounding his chest increasing with every breath he draws. It's so deathly quiet suddenly, the air hollow as Dante's presence steadily slips away, that the pounding of his blood in his ears is like thunder.

He can remain here for an eternity, killing and resting and killing, possibly until every other creature in the underworld has been slain.

What comes after that?

The question stretches thick into the silence. Vergil's throat works around a swallow. His palms clam up. In the distance, he hears another wave of approaching enemies.

He can remain here, for an eternity - without meaning.

_ Coward. _

Vergil scoffs at himself, shakes his head, and leaps off of the mountain of corpses. His feet touch the ground, and then he takes off, senses seeking the energy of his foolish brother.

"You won't even be able to make it back on your own."

…

V settles into Devil May Cry with an ease that feels surreal.

Perhaps a lot of it can be attributed to one half of the twins being sparse around the shop. To say Vergil lives here is putting it generously. He has a room, but V has only seen him return to it a handful of times. Days stretch between his appearances, and what he's doing in that time is anyone's guess. V certainly doesn't ask.

But V understands it, born of the same mind and all. They had lived nomadic and never remained too long in one spot. If V hadn't been limited by his human body, or if he had the Yamato, perhaps it would be a different story for him as well.

They hadn't exchanged words, or even addressed each other at all (if their fraught first meeting could even count as a proper exchange.) Whenever V sees him, Vergil hardly pays him a glance, though he's certain he can feel eyes on him when he's no longer looking at Vergil directly. Unwilling to acknowledge his humanity's presence, it seemed. No matter. V isn't quite sure how to deal with him in return. Not yet.

(Even if sometimes, provoking him is tempting. It is such a bizarre experience to be cut off from one's own thoughts, and sometimes V finds himself wishing he can peel back the mask and see what's going on under there once more.)

By contrast, Dante is shockingly easy to find a manner of new routine with.

V answers the phone now, and he takes the jobs Dante doesn't feel like bothering with. Nero says Dante is just unloading his  _ chores _ onto him, but V doesn't mind it. A way to keep busy is a way to keep busy, after all.

He has his own room as well… almost. Several weeks back, Dante had taken the devil arms lying around in the spare room and found another spot for them, leaving V with a futon and somewhere to at least call his own space. He hadn't asked for help, not from Dante or his familiars, when he managed to scrape enough together to purchase a proper bed. But Dante must have heard him struggling to push it through the door because he appeared, threw V a crooked smile, and then hefted the thing one handed to set it inside the room. Griffon had laughed for a really long time from his perch atop the ajar door.

Then Dante had disappeared, coming back several minutes later with a dresser he said he didn't use. It was stained, and the middle drawer didn't slide in straight, but still workable.

The kitchen is a beast he tackles one day, after much trepidation. If Vergil had needed to eat as often as his human counterpart, perhaps he would have bothered to strong arm his brother into doing something about the mess sooner. As it stands, it falls to V if he wants to survive here.

Shadow and Griffon take turns scooping up the cockroaches that scuttle out and eating them while V cringes away. The stains and grime he can handle. The insects are another thing entirely and he almost wants to drop a few in Dante's lap out of petty revenge, but his  _ brotherunclehousemate  _ (?) probably would have just thanked V for the free snack and eaten them too.

Sometimes he comes back to the foyer, where Dante is reclined at his desk with a magazine, and taps him on the shoulder or head with his cane. There are surprisingly little complaints when V asks him to move something else, or hold something up so V can get under it, or show him where something is. Maybe he could have gotten his familiars to do it, but perhaps there's a boundary V wants to test.

"Would you mind telling me… how things have been since you and Vergil have returned from the underworld?" He finally presses into a proper conversation, washing his hands after a particularly messy battle with the ambiguous substance caked behind the fridge. Dante is meandering about the kitchen, almost in a daze as he slowly whistles, probably never having seen it so clean before. 

"Been pretty good actually. Vergil's gotten into the family business - an actual job now! Don't think he's had one of those before. He's been…" 

The awkwardness stretches thick between the pause. Dante looks at V. V looks at Dante. Then Dante shrugs and continues.

"Well he hasn't raised any more demonic trees or towers so guess I can't complain. Practically a model citizen. Wish he'd stop running away every time Nero comes at him with An Emotion, but-" 

It's like he's talking more to himself at this point, stumbling on the thought and bringing his attention fully to V again. He spreads his arms.

"And then you showed up. It's like a two for one deal!"

V gets the distinct impression it isn't quite that simple, as much as Dante clearly wants it to be. How could it, with such a bloody history shared between them? There's so much tension between the brothers, between Nero, and now with him here… not the easiest matter to navigate indeed.

But perhaps Dante is just happy to have family back.

V can understand the sentiment, even if it's family he feels he no longer has a claim to.

Dante waves a hand dismissively. "But you probably already know most of that stuff already."

"I do not," V admits, leaning back against the counter with his shoulders slumping. A deep frown sets into his features. "The last clear memory I have… that Vergil had, rather, was when the two of us left the underworld." 

How can such a huge gap of memory just be missing? Something is wrong here, and Dante should absolutely be suspicious, yet he doesn't say anything to that. He merely rubs the back of his head, at a loss.

"I was merely curious if anything… abnormal happened after that." V sighs. Maybe it's nothing more than a side effect of his miraculous revival and there truly is nothing to worry about.

"You think he did something?" Dante leans over the table, propping his chin on his fist. "Idunno, he's always been a recluse. Disappears for weeks at a time sometimes. I don't keep a leash on him, as long as he ain't causing any trouble." 

V can imagine where he's off to, so the disappearances don't surprise him at all. During their travels over the years, they had set up a few haunts, small places of sanctuary warded against outside intrusions. It's likely he's frequenting one or more of them, if any of them are still intact at all. V considers looking into it, though it's not something he'd reveal to Dante. Breaching Vergil's privacy like that is like breaching his own.

The tension in Dante's body doesn't go unnoticed. V watches his free hand curl fingers against the wood he just wiped.

"Trash King didn't come back with you, and he's still, well, him. So uh, don't sweat the- I mean it's-"

He has the look of what V imagines a  _ terribly awkward uncle _ would appear like. Why Dante has chosen that role around him, he can't say. Perhaps the same place Nero's new  _ brother  _ has come from, though it feels even more ridiculous here. Regardless, V doesn't comment, his mouth pressing into a thin line.

"I cannot be sure if I am the same…" The thought trails off because V doesn't know where it's going, where he wants it to go, if he wants to acknowledge the disturbing threads tying together in the back of his mind. "Nevermind."

Dante glances him over, then pushes off the table and rolls his shoulders as if  _ he's _ been the one actually exerting all afternoon. Casually pacing over to V, he claps him on the shoulder.

"We like ya here V, whatever you are." 

The impact from the light blow nearly sends V over, but it doesn't knock the wind from him as much as the words themselves do. V peers back at him incredulously, but Dante only offers that same easy smile that reveals nothing.

"If ol' Verge gives you trouble about it, send him my way. Or better yet, let Nero know. Seems to straighten him out every time."

…

Vergil appears in the library one day.

V pauses as he enters. He can't call it an intrusion because this is the space Vergil has made for himself, one of the spare rooms transformed to hold an archive of various texts. V has merely seen more use with it in the past several weeks - and Vergil didn't seem to mind if he perused it, but they had never been in here at the same time.

He's near the desk wedged into one corner, a stack of books at his side, methodically cataloging with his back to V. The slight incline of his head indicates he is well aware of his approach as V steps up beside him.

V's gaze slides over a few of the titles. Researching warding and alchemic properties, it seemed. V doesn't comment on that, opting to do a little research of his own, test a certain boundary.

He pulls his -  _ their _ \- Blake collection out of his coat, the movement drawing Vergil's eye.

"Nero has tried to return this, but you didn't take it back." 

Vergil stares at the cover for a long moment, no change in his expression. Seeing him like this, on the other side of that countenance, V begins to understand Nero's frustration with his father. The wall he meets is impenetrable, even for someone he used to share a being with. He's as closed as the book V holds in his hand. 

"Does it bother you that it's in my possession?" V continues mildly. There's a tension behind Vergil's eyes, though discerning what kind it is isn't an easy task. V is more intrigued than truly vexed, however. If Vergil had such an issue with him, surely he would have dealt with him by now?

He gets the impression Vergil wants to lop his head off sometimes. Perhaps cut him chin to belly and spill him open. Every brief encounter they've had saw him trying to take V apart with his eyes, like he's a puzzle he can't solve. The sentiments are mutual, because V can't decide if Vergil is going to take the offered book from him or not, the longer he keeps staring at it.

Finally, Vergil returns his attention to the shelf disregarding the Blake collection entirely. His tone is as neutral as ever when he does answer.

"No."

"No?" V arches a brow. It doesn't  _ feel _ like a lie, but there's something unspoken he can't quite grasp… yet, perhaps bigger than the conversation itself. He brings the book back, closer to his chest.

"If you would like it back, you need only ask."

Truthfully, he doesn't want to relinquish it. It had been a lifeline from the very moment his fractured existence had begun, and it feels like an irrevocable part of him now, like another limb. But it does belong to Vergil just as much as it belongs to him.

Possibly even more than it belongs to him.

"That won't be necessary." Vergil gives a slight shake of his head, pushing a few titles into a shelf. "It is probably more useful to you."

"Is that so?" V smiles, unable to help the teasing lilt that creeps into his voice. "I've memorized every poem within these pages. You needn't be shy if you'd like a reminder."

Vergil glances at him again, considering him and the teasing expression on his face. Surely there must be a way to pull a proper reaction from him, but he is as immovable as ever.

"I'll keep that in mind."

V drifts away, tucking the precious book back into his coat, deciding to make himself useful and straighten out a few shelves as well. He easily recites as he does so, voice smooth over the words.

_ "The sun descending in the West, _

_ The evening star does shine; _

_ The birds are silent in their nest, _

_ And I must seek for mine." _

V lets the verse hang in the air, expanding to fill the silence. He tilts his head to listen, but all he hears are the soft rustle and thumping of books as Vergil sorts through them. Expecting to go unanswered, V merely nods to himself. If there is some kind of baggage tied to the book - their past - Vergil doesn't want to acknowledge, or perhaps the mere desire to distance himself from anything his humanity has attached to, this shouldn't be a surprising outcome-

_ "The moon, like a flower _

_ In heaven's high bower, _

_ With silent delight, _

_ Sits and smiles on the night." _

Blinking, V turns back around to find Vergil staring at him, distinctly unimpressed this time. Like it's so far beneath him, not even a challenge to recite. His inflection is perfect, even if the verse seems strange coming from his mouth, a muscle long since used.

Delightful.

With a soft chuckle, V moves on to the next stanza, turning his attention back to the books.

_ "Farewell, green fields and happy groves…" _

Using the words of Blake where their own words fail is something they're both accustomed to, and it's easy to sink into a rhythm. Vergil doesn't protest the help V offers without comment, even if he does occasionally move a book or two into a spot  _ he _ wants it specifically. Their back and forth eases any earlier tension away, and V wonders if he should just approach Vergil with the words of their favourite poet next time to let him finish them, instead of fumbling through idle conversation neither of them seem to appreciate.

In some ways, it's harder than finding a normal with Dante and Nero.

In others, it's the most natural he's felt with another person - even if that other person used to be himself.

Perhaps V can allow himself this temporary peace with his other half, no matter how obvious it is such a thing could never be that easy. He knows Vergil, the depths of his soul and the darkness that lurks there, as intimately as he knows his own. How long it will take before it reveals itself and pulls V back into it remains to be seen. He isn't naive. His time has always been borrowed and simply because it isn't immediately obvious what his  _ purpose _ is this time doesn't mean it isn't there.

He wonders if Vergil thinks of this too.

In some ways, V thinks he prefers not knowing.

For now, V discreetly slips their Blake collection into a stack of titles Vergil is sure to glance through, offering him one last smirk as he leaves.

A day later, he finds the book neatly placed on his dresser, the gold of the cover glinting back at him. V knows his challenge has been met but, very much like Vergil, he isn't one to back down either.

…

This game was becoming ridiculous.

If Vergil had said he didn't know where V's tenacity came from, he'd be lying. The creativity, on the other hand, is a new experience. The gold of the cover had started to appear in increasingly absurd places, gleaming at him from behind a potted plant, in the fridge, atop the ceiling fan. One time, Shadow had even dissolved into the floor near his feet, leaving the book sitting plainly behind.

V never acknowledges the childish antics. Neither of them do. It would be a loss to dignify any of V's airy smiles and smug sidelong glances with a response.

Why he bothers at all is a mystery. Vergil knows how fond V is of the collection, so he can only conclude he is seeking some kind of reaction from him. Completely pointless.

Vergil has no practical use for the book at all. It makes no difference to him whether it lies in Nero's possession or V's. What's important is that he  _ doesn't  _ have it.

There are sentiments tied to the object that don't mean anything if he holds onto it. Better to leave it in the hands of those more suited to such matters - though he's having second thoughts if one of them is sticking the childhood keepsake in the  _ fridge _ of all places.

Vergil enters the room silently, book in hand. If he returns it in the dead of night, at least it will give him several hours of peace.

V is asleep because of course he is. As far as everyone can observe, V is that of a completely regular human, and humans needed at least eight hours of sleep every day according to his knowledge of them. That number seems impossible to Vergil, who regularly goes weeks without much more than a few hours of rest.

Something is off as he steps inside, however. His ears pick up laboured breathing and a quickened pulse. V's form is still on the bed, but rigid, tense. His eyes are closed and he's clearly asleep, a sheen of sweat covering his skin, just barely visible in the dim light that streams in through the window.

Understanding is quick to settle in. Vergil thinks with a heavy bitterness that he should have anticipated this. Shadow lays beside her master, half draped over him, her tail flicking restlessly back and forth. A small wave of spikes rippling across her pelt is the only acknowledgement of Vergil's presence as he draws closer. She noses V's arm, quiet whine rumbling in her throat.

It isn't her fault. Vergil knows the blame rests elsewhere than the familiars, falling upon his own chest and sitting there like a lead weight.

Atop the Qliphoth, Vergil remembers the familiars intercepting Dante, felt their intent through his own remerged soul. Felt their presence fade away with the last of their life. Valiant, perhaps, for them to try and lessen the weight upon him. If only things could ever be that simple.

The nightmares would never truly vanish, nor would the pain, nor would his soul ever forget all that had been branded into it. That had become an intrinsic part of his being, unable to be cut away, just like V would never be. And they're an intimate part of V now, impossible to separate from the rest of him.

Even if Vergil's hand twitches at his side, fingers brushing against Yamato, longing to do just that. Separate himself permanently from the grief so candidly on display before him. Every instinct screams to right this anomaly, erase his own  _ weakness _ playing out right before his eyes. This isn't -  _ shouldn't _ \- be V's burden, a consequence adding to the unsettling experience of letting his humanity roam free.

As if sensing his intent, Shadow turns her head towards him, crimson tinted amber looking right through him. V spasms, head tossing slightly, incoherent mutterings on his lips that Vergil wishes his hearing couldn't pick up.

Of its own volition, his hand reaches out, not towards Yamato, but towards V. An instinct he can hardly process before it's upon him, some misplaced attempt to- to do what?

His hand stills inches away from V. There's no salvation he can offer him. Everything he's experiencing was carved from Vergil's own hand. His entire existence had started when Vergil had ripped the most haunting pieces of his being out of himself. Vergil couldn't fix; he could only break.

His hand slowly falls back to his side. A sullen noise arises from Shadow as she watches him, before settling down against her master again.

_ "Some are born to sweet delight, some are born to endless night,"  _ Vergil murmurs, turning away before any more useless impulses can seize him.

He leaves the book on V's dresser, as he always does, and slips away as silent as he'd come.

…

It comes in waves, as splintered and fractured as the body Mundus breaks a thousand times over. Sometimes it's the Yamato shattering in his grasp, voice scraped silent from the cries that tear apart his throat. Sometimes it's Dante's face cutting through the dark, graying out as oblivion claims him, the amulet slipping from his lax grasp. Sometimes time doesn't make sense and he sees Nero bleeding out on the garage floor, his son's screams joining the agonizing cacophony that makes up his shattered soul. 

Pieces of a life that no longer belonged to him. Pieces of an existence that would always find a way to seep back inside the darkest corners of his mind. V always wakes, cursing his body's need for sleep and with no desire to immediately return to its clutches.

He climbs out of bed and drags himself to the bathroom, the hallway tilting sickeningly, twisting like an Escher painting. The short walk feels too long somehow, sluggish like he's padding through tar, a strange quality to the air he can't quite place. But he stumbles inside and the bathroom light flickers on with a feeble buzz, its glow dim and cold. V sees how pale and gaunt his arms stretch before him as he leans against the sink. He imagines his face can't look much better.

It isn't  _ his _ face he meets when he raises his gaze to the mirror. V's breath catches, and he realizes he hasn't escaped the clutches of sleep at all.

It sends shame spiking through his blood, the way he always trembles, heart pumping ice as he stares into the face so similar to what has always belonged to his reflection. Paler than even he is, tinted a sickly blue with the poison that flows through its veins, near unrecognizable in the hollowed out expression that covers its once proud countenance, but still painfully familiar. 

"You pursue me, even here, knowing it's futile," V utters, pressing his hands on either side of the glass instead. Fury is so quick to overtake the initial rush of fear, and where he was cold he now burns white hot. How many times has this creature's image come to him in battle with the intent of breaking him? And how many times has V sent it right back to the dark and miserable pit it crawled out of?

The sheer audacity it has, seeking him out in his most vulnerable state, like it would make a difference.

"I've killed you a hundred times over," he grits out. Somewhere, in the bathroom his mind has recreated, there's a steady dripping of water, rhythmic and faint. It begins to pool around his feet, coating the grimy floor, ink black. V ignores it, pressing in closer to his reflection, challenging it.

"What do you want?"

Of course there's no answer the thing could give. Its voice had been stolen long ago. It merely leans in, and it makes V shudder how similar it is to the man he's forging new company with in the waking world, but in all the wrong ways. It's empty, drained of everything that made Vergil  _ Vergil _ . A pitiable and unsightly old scar, blank and hollow in the way it regards V, none of  _ their _ determination, their drive, their motivation. It just exists, where it  _ shouldn't _ .

V expects it to attack, attempt to drag him under the surface and drown him in their shared nightmare, but it doesn't. Instead, the creature presses its forehead against the other side of the glass and closes its eyes.

V's throat closes up at the unexpected display of vulnerability. Such a thing would never be displayed on Vergil's face so easily. What is this- trickery? Submission? Why now, of all times?

"We are free now. There's no need for this." His voice strains, catching on something on his throat. He hates hearing it wither, and break. "There's no need for… you."

The steady  _ drip drip drip _ grows louder, the floor vanishing under black depths. The walls peel apart, tile splintering, sink cracking. All of it dissolves, leaving only the feeble sheet of glass separating him from the creature, and then that shatters too. Nothing but the dark surrounds them, glittering obsidian mire sloshing at their feet.

The creature kneels before him, so tall even in such a position, and V almost wants to reach out and touch it, see if it will splinter apart too.

Both of them, fragments of a being that's long since moved past their worth, and yet, V is still here. Here with the apparent purpose of finding some sort of meaning in his impossible existence, the pieces of another man's life colouring his every interaction with a son who isn't his son and a brother who isn't his brother. And the shreds of his past cling to him without ceasing, even though he should be  _ stronger _ than it now _.  _ Where does it leave him? Why should he be clawing like this when all of his efforts are the reason Vergil can claim his complete existence now?

Left in the dark with the ruins of his most grievous mistake, while Vergil gets to wipe clean the slate.

A scream of frustration tears from his throat as he slams both fists into the thing's chest. The impact reverberates through its armor and it opens its eyes, though the hit is feeble against its mass and against the sluggish physics of the dream. V's breath stutters ragged, fingers clawing at the armored plates - useless, useless,  _ useless _ . His hand finds its way into the creature's hair, seizing it with brutal intent - how many times has he forced such imitations to their knees and slit their throats in battle?

There's nothing sharp he can use, except perhaps his own teeth. V doesn't care. He'll use his bare hands if he has to, to put an end to this.

He jerks the creature's head back and stills instead.

It's staring up at him, observing ever so silently, but its eyes have softened somehow. Unfocused and obedient.

Lost.

Just as lost as he is.

V's fingers slacken and he can only watch in stunned bewilderment as the creature leans its cheek into his palm. Its skin is so cold against his own and he can't help but run his thumb over a vein cutting across its pale flesh. This should make him angry, the pitiful plea of a beast knowing it could no longer torment him and begging for scraps, but it isn't quite that. V can tell that it's more.

The way it so openly seeks for everything it has never been shown before… something breaks in V's chest, crushing the breath from his lungs. He doesn't resist as it takes hold of his wrist, keeping his hand pressed where it is with heart aching desperation. V can feel how tight its grip is, and it's a wonder his bones don't break under the stress.

It still looks so much like Vergil.

It isn't though. It's nothing but a bad dream.

But V still leans in close and smiles bittersweet against the creature's forehead, offering his other hand up to cup its face as well. Maybe he was a pitiful being too, clinging to memories in the dark like this, with the grand delusion of being wanted. Being needed.

" _ Which was Born in a Night to perish in a Night…" _


End file.
